


As the river flows into the delta

by ElisAttack



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: 18th Century, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Regency, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Falling In Love, Fanart, Happy Derek Hale, Kilts, Laird Derek, M/M, Pining, Scotland, Squire Stiles, The Highlands, of the Scottish variety
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-10
Updated: 2016-05-10
Packaged: 2018-06-07 16:34:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6813553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElisAttack/pseuds/ElisAttack
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles never planned on squiring for a laird, but he figures fate has a funny way of doing things.  </p><p>Or the one where Derek is a kind-hearted Scottish laird, and Stiles is his saucy squire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	As the river flows into the delta

**Author's Note:**

> Believe it or not, this started with me reading a paper about how the kilt is not as old as everyone thinks it is. If you guys are interested, "The Invention of Tradition: The Highland Tradition of Scotland" by Hugh Trevor-Roper is actually really funny, for an academic paper...

The forest blurs in a long ribbon of green as Stiles urges his mare into a gallop.  The morning air is crisp.  Dew dripping from the trees above, splashing on Stiles' skin as he rides.  He feels alive, free, like he could climb to the highest peak of the tallest mountain and bellow for joy.  He has not felt like this since before his mother passed.

His mare shakes her mane, whinnying, and Stiles shouts in happiness as her hooves pound the soft, mulchy forest floor.

He had risen from his bed roll that morning and just felt this overwhelming need to ride like the wind.  Stiles' father, the laird of clan Stilinski, says he gets it from his mother.  Her clan is known throughout the highlands as the best horse breeders in Scotland.  So renowned is his mother's clan, nobles from France have bought horses from them. 

They are in Stiles' blood.

He remains on the path while he rides, but small branches still manage to flick out and hit him, bruising his sensitive skin.  His thin linen shirt does not help with the endeavour, but Stiles didn't want to waste time dressing properly.  He wanted to ride with the morning still fresh in the air.  His tartan wraps around his waist and covers his lap.  He didn't bothering with the pin holding it in place over his shoulders and the long fabric flows undone.  It trails behind him as he rides, the lines of deep greens and reds, fluttering and blending into the forest.

Stiles has been on the road for just under three days.  Three days of utter, quiet bliss.  Alone with himself, the forest, and his mare, as well as the occasional traveler.  Stiles has only one more day before he reaches his destination.  His last day of freedom before he is to become the new squire to laird Hale.  So Stiles rides on, making use of the free time he has left, before he's scrubbing dirt from the boots of the laird he is to serve for the next two years.

Stiles takes a deep breath and hollers one last time, startling a flock of larks from their perch.  They fly from the canopy in a swarm as he rides by.  He throws his head back and grins brighter than the sun.

***

Hale castle is tall and impressive from a distance.  The land around the castle is green and fertile, workers scattered about the fields.  A farmer gripping the horns of a bull pulling a plough openly stares as Stiles rides past.  Self-consciously, Stiles tugs on the edges of his tartan, pulling it down where it was riding up his thighs.  That's another thing he got from his mother, his shamelessness.  The air is brisk, but Stiles hardly feels it, he loves baring his skin to the cold.

Stiles rides into the courtyard, pulling his mare to a tentative halt.  She huffs in confusion, looking around the unfamiliar yard as her nostrils expel vapour into the air.  A man with a sword strapped to his side approaches.  He wears the tartan of clan Hale, and carries himself like a soldier.  He reaches out and grips the reins of Stiles' mare without fear, even though he stands close to her thumping hooves.  Scars mar his features, twisting the skin like it was burnt in a fire.  As if someone dropped boiling pitch onto his face.  This is a man who carries the scars and gait of a battlefield. 

Stiles nods his head in respect.  The man's eyes run over Stiles' body, from his thin shirt, all the way to his tartan.  His eyes study the fabric, before they light mischievously in recognition.

"Clan Stilinski."  He says a hint of amusement in his tone.  Stiles has a feeling the amusement never leaves his tone.  "You must be John's third son."  The man looks over his panting horse, "You're early."

"I'm a fast rider."  Stiles dismounts his mare in one movement.  He takes the reins from the man, and introduces himself, "Stiles Stilinski." 

"Ah yes, your father mentioned your preference for that nickname in his letter.  I am the laird's uncle, Peter Hale.  You just missed Derek.  He's out hunting, as he is prone to do for some godforsaken reason."  The man says, mocking derision evident in his voice.

Stiles frowns, confused, "Do you not like hunting?"

Peter chuckles, as he leads him through the courtyard to the stables, "I enjoy it just fine, in fact boar hunting is one of my favourite pastimes, but Derek does not hunt for himself or even his family.  He skilfully catches the finest birds and rabbits our land has to offer and gives it to the tenants, while we are made to eat fish."  Peter says implying it is a cause for shame, like he expects Stiles to agree with his sentiment when he feels the exact opposite.  His mother used to do something similar.  Every season she would arrange hunts amongst the family, outings the whole clan looked forward to.  All the meat caught would be given to villagers whose harvests failed that year, or who lost a family member and were struggling to make ends meet.

Laird Hale sounds like a man Stiles could easily respect and would love to serve.  He smiles as Peter leaves him in the stables to dress down his horse.  Stiles thinks he will fit in here just fine.

***

After Stiles finishes inspecting his mare's hooves for splinters, a maid appears, sent by Peter to show him into the castle.  She walks him though the dark halls, pointing out where the kitchen is, the great hall, and various other rooms he will have to know as the squire to the laird.  After all is said and done, she leads him upstairs and leaves him in a room with a small cot tucked to the side of a large window.  Another door lies on the far side of the room, but before he can investigate, he notices a pitcher and bowl resting on a table in the corner.  Stiles figures he would make a better impression on the laird if he was clean and didn't smell like a pigsty.  

Dropping his travel bags, he tucks them under the cot out of sight from nosy maids.  Peeling off his sweaty, dirty shirt, he picks up the sponge and pours water in the bowl.  Stiles begins wiping himself clean of three days worth of dust and sweat, cringing when the water quickly turns brown.  He saw a well when he was riding up to the castle, and he reminds himself to ask the maid if another one lies closer. 

He unbuckles the belt holding his tartan to his waist, chuckling at the line where his skin is clear and pale under the fabric, compared to his tanned torso.  The highlands may be cold and overcast, but if one rides shirtless enough, it is possible to turn pale skin dark.  He's just about to unwrap his tartan from around his waist when the door he was so curious about slams open and Stiles nearly jumps fifteen feet in the air.

A man with a thick beard and piercing hazel eyes stares at him like he is the intruder and it isn't the other way around.  He wears worn riding clothes, dirt spotted trousers clinging snugly to thick thighs and a weighty woollen coat with mud hanging heavy from the fibres.  He looks like he rode through a peat mire while it was storming and on fire.  The man is absolutely filthy.

"Who are you?"  The man asks, surprise and confusion in his tone as he stares at Stiles' state of undress.

"I should be asking you that."  Stiles answers, folding his arms over his chest to preserve at leave some of his dignity.  He quickly gives up though when his tartan starts sliding down his waist and he has to grab it before he exposes himself in front of this complete stranger.  "This is my room."

The man points over his shoulder, "I am the laird of this castle, and that is my room."  The man frowns before his eye drops to Stiles' tartan as Peter's did when he met him,  "You're the third Stilinski son."  He says, walking into the room, stopping just in front of Stiles.  He tilts his head to the side, "I wasn't expecting you for another day.  Your room is still not prepared."

"Oh,"  Stiles looks around at what appears to be a reasonably furnished room.  It's no laird's chamber, but it is cosy and it is comfortable, and that's more than Stiles expected, considering he expected to be sleeping in the servant's quarters, not in an adjoined room to the laird's.  "It seems fine to me, there is water and there are sheets on the bed, that's all I need."

The laird raises his brow, "And you're not expecting your own coal stove to keep you warm during cold nights?  Your own chamber pot perhaps?" 

Stiles scratches his head nervously, "The room is plenty warm enough, and I have two sets of legs, I can walk outside to relive myself like everyone else."

Laird Hale snorts, "You are not at all what I expected.  My last squire lived more comfortably than I did, I believed you would be the same."

Stiles shrugs his shoulders, "My mother used to take me on the road when I was younger.  I quickly learned to live without luxuries.  You have to when you spend months on the road in the middle of winter and it's either bathe in freezing cold rivers or stink like high heaven."

"What did you choose?"  The laird asks, abruptly and unexpectedly and Stiles stumbles for words, surprised at the inquiry.

"It depended on how close we were to pretty lasses with the noses of bloodhounds."

"I cannot imagine there  are many of those in the wild."

"You would be surprised."  Stiles says, his natural snark coming through.

The laird smiles and rests his arm against the washing table, casually leaning against it, "They were probably elves sent by the fae to trick you, it might have been best if you smelled foul, they would have avoided you then."  The laird says, a teasing tilt to his voice as his eyes sparkle.  Stiles feels himself grinning in return, neck flushing slightly as the laird is looks at him with speculation and a hint of newly developed fondness in his expression.

Stiles looks down at his feet, shuffling shyly, and the laird finally seems to realize his state of undress because he backs out of the room, "I should let you get back to settling down, supper will be held in an hour, if you need help navigating the castle, just ask one of the maids, they will help."  He's just about to close the door, but Stiles call out and he stops.

"Do you need help undressing?  I am your squire after all, I might as well get started on my duties."

Stiles might be imagining the slight flush on the laird's cheeks when he shakes his head and smiles, "I think I can handle it by myself for one more day."  He makes a shooing gesture with his hands, "Finish up, I'll see you downstairs.  You won't be serving me tonight at dinner, so take a seat at the benches.  Tomorrow I'll instruct you on your duties."

Stiles bows lowly, "Thank you, my laird."

"And Stilinski?"

"Yes, my laird?"  Stiles says looking up from his bow.

"Call me Derek."

Stiles smirks, "Only if you call me Stiles."

Derek hides a soft smile, "Very well, Stiles."

***

The great hall is loud and boisterous as is only natural when men and women gather together in a room with overflowing wine in their cups.  Stiles enters the hall, wearing his finest doublet, wishing he settled for something less fancy.  He just knows someone will spill the contents of their cup over the expensive brocade.

He scans the room for the most subdued table, and eventually takes a seat beside a man with sun kissed skin and a crooked jaw.  Stiles looks up to the head table where Derek sits, his sister beside him.  He wears a smile as he speaks with her.  He looks considerably better put together than the last time Stiles saw him, and he cannot help but smile down at his empty plate.

"You must be the new squire."  The man sitting beside him says, a friendly smile pulling at his lips, "I'm Scott, my mother works in the kitchens."

"Stiles."  He says, offering his hand to shake, Scott takes it enthusiastically.  "Is it always this loud?"

Scott shakes his head, "Not always, but today the laird caught us a feast in the woods,"  He gestures to the table where various dressed birds and rabbits lay roasted, laying in platters, dripping with fat and smelling like heaven come early.  Stiles' stomach growls.

Scott chuckles, "Yeah, I can't blame you, this is a spread.  The laird gave more to the village, you might be able to hear their merrymaking if you go up the battlements."

"What should I try first, there's so much to choose from?"  Stiles looks at the feast, feeling lost.

Scott brightens at that, grabbing Stiles plate, "Here, I'll show you the food my mother made.  She's the best chef in the highlands and also a damn good physician.  Last week little Billy broke his leg falling out of a tree, and the village physician said he would never walk again.  The Laird sent my mother down to the village, and now he's expected to make a full recovery."

"That's amazing,"  Stiles remarks truthfully.  It's difficult to find a woman doctor on the highlands so well regarded by a laird, she must be brilliant.

Scott chatters on happily about his work at the castle.  He tends to the animals, keeping them healthy and well fed.  He speaks of lambing season and how he loves naming the little lambs after the laird's immediate family.  He says Cora is his favourite, sweet tempered and mild, a total opposite of her human counterpart. 

Stiles laughs along at Scott's descriptions of the different servants, happily chewing on a honey sweetened carrot.  He's never had better food.  He feels happy and welcome with Scott by his side and by the end of the night, his mouth hurts from smiling so much.  He finds himself looking up to the laird's table only to see Derek gazing down at him, a questioning look in his eye, like he is asking if Stiles is enjoying himself.

Stiles nods biting his lip, before quickly down at his plate, lest he break out in a grin too inappropriate to be directed at a laird.  His attempt at being modest is all for naught because Derek throws it all out the window, winking at Stiles.

***

The days turn into weeks and Stiles finds himself settling into a routine.  He rises at daybreak and goes down to the courtyard.  He relieves himself in a discreet corner far from anyone else, and then makes the walk out to the well in the fields.  There is one in the courtyard, but the line for it is long in the morning and Stiles relishes the walk.  If he's lucky he may even come across Scott preparing to take the sheep out to pasture.

He hums to himself a jaunty tune as he pumps the handle, clean, crisp water flowing in spurts.  Stiles takes the bucket to the kitchen and offers it to Melissa who heats it for him, making Derek's favourite tea.  While Stiles waits, he chats with the kitchen staff laughing at the guard sleeping off last night's alcohol in front of the kitchen fire.

The women offer him a platter full of breakfast foods and a kettle and Stiles walks up to his room.  He always goes through his room door when serving Derek in the morning.  The first time he tried to go through Derek's door he found it locked.  It comforts Stiles to know that Derek trusts him enough to keep the doors separating their rooms unlocked.  It implies a bond between them, one Stiles is all too glad to have.  He admires his laird.  Derek is a good man and Stiles is proud to be his squire.

Stiles balances the platter on his hip as he enters Derek's room.  The only visible part of Derek is tufts of black hair peeking  out from beneath the covers.  Stiles places the food and tea on the table, and moves to the fireplace, stroking and building the fire, warming the previously chilly room significantly.  He then goes to wake Derek.

Stiles approaches the bed, reaching out and lightly touches Derek's shoulder where it's buried under the blankets, "Derek?"  He calls, "Wake up."

Derek groans and the covers shift as Derek pulls them higher over his head, wrapping himself in a cocoon.  He turns on his side and moves to the other side on the bed, far out of Stiles' reach.

Stiles frowns, Derek had a late night the day before, he stayed up far longer than he should have, receiving complaints and concerns from the nearby village.  He insisted everyone have their word before he finally took to bed, and by the time the last villager left, the moon was already high in the sky. 

Sighing, Stiles climbs onto the bed.  He knee walks over to Derek's form, stopping only when he leans over him.  Stiles prods at his back with a finger, prodding at him.  Gone is patient Stiles, this Stiles keeps his fingers nice and pokey.  After one significantly violent prod, Derek groans and turns over towards Stiles.  Only his brows and eyes are visible over the blanket and he blinks at Stiles, confused.

"Why are you in my bed?"  Derek asks sleepily, yawning and dislodging the blankets, revealing the thin shift Derek wears underneath.  Stiles deliberately looks away, blushing red when he notices the deep gape in Derek's shirt, revealing the musculature of his chest and the thick whorls of hair covering his skin.

"You weren't waking."  Stiles says, embarrassed as he retreats off the bed, "The tea is getting cold.  Rise and eat, I'll leave you be."

A hand on his wrist stops him from walking away.  He turns and looks at a sleepy eyed Derek, moving to sit up in bed, blankets draped over his waist,  "Give me my tartan."  He says simply, and Stiles nods.  He walks over to the chair by the fireplace, where he hung the woollen fabric to warm up.  He hands it to Derek, looking away while he gets out of bed and wraps it around his waist, cinching it with a belt.

"I'll be going now."  Stiles says with a bow, backing towards his door, but Derek shakes his head.

"Stay, and have breakfast with me, I wish to discuss your training."

"Training?"  Stiles questions, as he takes a seat opposite Derek at the small breakfast table.  It's placed in front of a window, and Stiles can see the whole estate from the bubbled glass.  It's the perfect view for a laird.

Derek reaches for the kettle and pours Stiles a cup of tea, before pouring one for himself, "Yes, training, or did you think a squire's only duty was to take care of my needs?"  He says sarcastically.

Stiles rolls his eyes feeling completely relaxed around Derek.  He quickly learned he could speak with him as an equal.  In fact, Derek preferred it compared to stammering and overt politeness.   "No need to get saucy with me."  Stiles says reaching out and spooning some eggs onto his plate.  "I just thought that would come later."

"You've been in my household for a few weeks, you're ready."  Derek remarks, picking up a piece of toast and spreading butter on it.  "Bring your blade down to the training field after you've finished your morning chores, I'll be teaching you techniques."

"You will?  Don't you have better things to do than teach me how to hold a sword?  I though one of your guards would help me."  Stiles questions, tilting his head to the side.

"I accepted your service from your father under the promise that I would instruct you, not anyone else.  You are my responsibility, my squire, it is my duty to teach you all I know."  Derek gazes at him, a serious look in his eye. 

"Thank you."  Stiles says gratefully, but Derek just quirks a brow at him and points to his full plate.

"Finish your breakfast."

***

Stiles swings the sword and when it meets Derek's blade with a deafening clash, he feels it resonate throughout his body.  His arms go numb and his stance wavers.  Stiles' formation breaks, and he takes a step back so not to fall, quickly dodging Derek's plummeting claymore.

Stiles is not a novice to the blade.  He used to spar with his brothers when he was young and they roughhoused with wooden practice swords.  When they got older, their father hired a tutor for them, but compared to Derek, the tutor's lessons seem trivial.

"Good.  But I'm going easy on you, others won't."  Derek instructs, voice firm and patient.  He points to Stiles' feet, "Quick footwork is advantageous for you because your arms are weak.  Dodge the blade when you can, don't try and meet it."

Stiles steps out of stance.  Wincing, he rubs his shoulder, and cracks his neck to get rid of some stiffness.  They've been practicing for hours, and Stiles is dead tired.  Derek may say he's going easy on him, but it doesn't feel like it.  His sore body speaks for itself.

"Did I hurt you?"  Derek asks worriedly, his eyes focus in on Stiles' movements, voice soft, questioning, and endlessly gentle.

"No."  Stiles shakes his head, and spreads his legs, moving into stance.  "Again."

Derek walks around Stiles in a circle, deciding when to attack.  He swings his claymore, and Stiles sidesteps, dancing out of reach, feet moving with a grace he processes nowhere else but on the training field.  But Derek is quick as well, and once again, Stiles finds a blade pressed up against his throat.

Derek smiles, "You're improving."  Stiles swallows, throat bobbing nervously.  His adam's apple kisses the sharp blade before Derek pulls it away, twirling it in his grip.  He sweeps his tartan out behind him, moving back into stance.  "Attack."  He says.

Stiles eyes Derek's stance, thinking about how he could attack, what manoeuvres he could perform.

"Stop over thinking, Stiles,"  Derek says with an infinite amount of patience in his voice.  "Your opponent won't wait for you to attack them."

Stiles sighs,  "I can't just rush at you, you've already showed me it doesn't work."  He remembers the first time he tried running at Derek only a few hours ago.  Derek had swept his legs out from under him.  He found himself staring up at the sunny sky, eyes wide and blinking.  Derek had helped him up, and told him exactly what he did wrong.

"Then don't rush at me."  Derek says,  "Approach me like you would approach a lady before asking her for a dance.  Be a gentleman.  Be courteous, but protect yourself like you would if you were afraid of rejection.  Watch your opponent's every move, like if you were looking to see if a lady was receptive to your advances.  Watch for their body language.  If their muscles move, their feet shift."

Stiles quirks a brow,  "You seem awfully certain of my popularity with women."

Derek's eyes twinkle in mischief,  "Are you saying you are unpopular with the fairer sex?  I seem to recall your affinity for pretty lasses with strong noses."

Stiles blinks at him in surprise, relaxing his formation,  "You remember that?"

 

 [Tumblr link to art](http://iamonlydancing.tumblr.com/post/144167021162/as-the-river-flows-into-the-delta-8k-words)

 

Derek smiles, also lowering his blade, "It's the moment I learned how terribly sarcastic you are, of course I remember."  He sheaths his blade, walking over to a nearby fence where their water flasks hang from a post.  Stiles copies his movement and trails after him, frowning when he notices Derek's tartan slipping from the belt holding it up, edging closer to sweeping the damp earth.

"Derek, wait."  Stiles calls out, hurrying forward to catch the fabric before it slips fully.  He reaches for the material near Derek's thighs.  Gathering it efficiently, he pulls it through the belt, tightening it, and making sure the bottom of the tartan ends just above the knee like it is supposed to.

When he finishes, he looks up at Derek, a quip and grin on his lips that slowly slips at the intense way he studies Stiles.  They stand only a foot apart, the jewel-like colours of Derek's eyes easily discernible.  Stiles holds his breath, eyes shifting to Derek's neck when he swallows, throat bobbing.  "Is it fine now?"  Derek asks, his voice uncharacteristically high, their gazes still locked.

Stiles flushes, just realizing how presumptuous it must have been to adjust a laird's clothing like that in public, like he is a child.  In the privacy of Derek's room it is fine to help him dress, to make sure everything is pinned right and in place.  After all, that is his job as a squire.  But the training field is public, and Stiles should have just told him what was wrong.  He shouldn't have gotten so _handsy_.

"I'm so sorry."  Stiles says, stepping back quickly.  Putting room between them, he lowers his eyes to the earth.  He thinks he sees Derek start to reach out for him only to drop his arm again, a look of disappointment on his face.

"It's fine, Stiles."  Derek says with infinite patience.  "You saved the laundry maids from having to scrub mud out of wool, you're just doing your job."

Stiles recalls how it feels when Derek corrects his stance, when he shifts up behind Stiles and gently moves him with light touches.  When he laughs as Stiles relays to him the shenanigans the servants get up to.  The way he smiles in the evening, eyes crinkling as he thanks Stiles when he refills his cup before he even needs to ask.  When he knocks on Stiles door before they turn in, and wishes him a good night's sleep, standing vulnerable and endlessly soft in a simple robe, often with a book in hand.  If Derek even sends a look in his direction, it makes Stiles' heart beat like thunder in his chest.

But Stiles is just doing his job, and he cannot have thoughts like these.

Derek grabs for Stiles' flask and hands it to him, before he grabs his own.  Stiles drinks, purposely looking away when Derek throws his head back, throat moving as he swallows, obviously parched.  He must have been working extremely hard to teach Stiles what he knows.  It would have been better if Derek was unkind, but he is the exact opposite.  Derek is unselfish, and even though Stiles is meant to take care of him, he takes just as much care of Stiles in return.

"What's wrong?"  Derek asks, breaking Stiles out of his thoughts.  He looks at Stiles with genuine concern in his beautiful eyes, and something breaks inside of Stiles.  He looks away, feeling tears of frustration form in his eyes.

"Nothing, I'm just sore."  He says dismissively, grabbing at his shoulder where it really is starting to ache.

Derek reaches for him, but Stiles unconsciously steps out of his grasp, instantly regretting it at the blatant look of hurt Derek wears.  "I can help."  Derek offers, "Let me see where it hurts."

"I'm fine."  Stiles says, shaking his head.

"Don't be stubborn, Stiles.  Let me see."  Derek says, his brows dipping in the middle, "It could be a sprain, if I don't see what's wrong, it will only get worse."

Stiles sighs, and points around his back at his shoulder blade, "Whenever I move the joint, it aches."

Derek takes their flasks and hangs them back on the fence.  He reaches for Stiles' vest and begins unbuttoning it.  Stiles determinately looks away from where Derek's thick fingers move down his chest, daintily pulling buttons out of holes.

"Did I do something wrong?"  Derek asks softly, and Stiles looks up meeting his gaze.  His eyes are questioning as he gazes at Stiles like his well being matters.  Stiles swallows, throat bobbing.

"No, you're fine, my thoughts are just distracting me."

"Anything I can do to help?  I've been told I give good advice."  Derek offers, a faint smile pulling his lips up as he peels Stiles' vest off, hanging it on the fence.  He turns Stiles around, tugging down his shirt, exposing his skin to the brisk air.

"No, it's nothing."  Stiles squeaks when he feels Derek's warm fingers prod at his muscles, feeling for knots.

"Talk to me."  Derek says quietly, "I don't like it when you're quiet.  Something is wrong, I can tell."  Derek's fingers rub in circles around his skin and Stiles moans in relief as the pain evaporates with the warmth from his fingers.  "Is Peter bothering you?  He can be an testy, but don't let it get to your head, he's been bitter ever since he was injured in battle, it's just the way he is."

"Peter is fine."  Stiles reassures.

"Is someone else harassing you then, making you feel like you don't fit in?  Because you do, you belong here with m- us."

Stiles shakes his head, "Everyone's been very welcoming."

"Then what is it?"  Derek pushes for an answer.

Stiles sighs and steps away from Derek's warm hands, "You can't fix everything."  He says sadly.  Pulling his shirt up his shoulder, he picks up his vest, tugging it on after.  "I'll see you at supper, unless you need me to do something else?"

Derek shakes his head and Stiles nods once, moving to walk back to the castle.

"Stiles,"  Derek calls out and Stiles turns back, "Have faith in me, please."

Stiles smiles, "Faith in you is one thing I will always have.  You're my laird, I trust you above all."

Derek frowns, "Have faith in me because I am your friend, not just your laird."  Stiles' mouth falls open in surprise, but Derek continues.  "Sit at my table during dinner, I want to introduce you to my sisters, they've been bothering me for weeks about you."

Stiles nods.

***

"Finally we get to meet you."  Laura greets as Stiles raises from his bow.  An extra seat has been pulled up to the table, and he gulps when he sees it is placed beside Derek's, a seat usually reserved for Laura.

"I'm sorry for stealing your place at the table."

Laura waves away his apology, "It's a simple thing to give up in order to meet the man Derek constantly talks about."

Stiles face floods red, and he deliberately hides his face, taking a seat at the table.  Derek has yet to arrive, and after their awkward talk on the training field, Stiles is bracing himself for more prying.

"You mean the man he never shuts up about."  Cora says from Derek's other side, fingers busy peeling chestnuts.  She leans back in her chair, unladylike, and so very true to the rumours he hears about her.

"I'm sorry?"  Stiles offers.

"Don't mind Cora, she's just bitter Derek is talking about another and not just heaping praises on her studies."

Cora folds her arms over her chest, betraying herself for what she is, a fifteen year old girl who just wants her big brother's approval.

"Derek mentioned you were learning strategy."  Stiles says to Cora, in an attempt to reconcile himself with her,  "He's very proud of how well you are doing."

"He said this to you?"  Cora asks, a hint of happiness in her voice.  Stiles nods, and Cora shuffles in her seat, barely holding herself back from grinning violently.  "Well, it's surprising he shares such personal family business with outsiders, but what can I say, I am an amazing sister."

Laura rolls her eyes out of Cora's sight, "The best, most _humble_ sister."  She jokes, combing a hand through Cora's hair, smiling fondly.  Stiles looks away at the display of affection.  On one hand, he misses his family, he really does.  But on the other hand, he loves it here and wouldn't give it up for the world, no matter how bittersweet.

His attention is drawn to movement by the end of the table.  Derek approaches and Stiles' breath catches in his throat.  He wears a fine woollen doublet, deep sea green like his eyes, vegetal motifs embroidered onto the fabric.  It hugs Derek's muscled shoulders, dipping down and accentuating his narrow waist.  Derek has forgone his tartan, choosing to don trousers instead.  They cling to his every movement and Stiles feels like he's dying on the inside.

His rabbiting heart speeds even faster when Derek catches Stiles looking, and sends him a brilliant smile in return.  As he takes a seat he runs his fingers over the back of Stiles' neck with familiarity.  "Is your shoulder feeling better?"  Derek asks, concerned fingers caressing Stiles' neck.  His skin burns at the contact.

Stiles licks his lips, nodding.  "It just needed rest and a warm compress."

"That's good."  Derek says, fingers finally drifting from Stiles' neck and he finds himself taking a deep breath of relief.  Laura looks at him strangely.

"Sorry I was tardy,"  Derek apologizes, "I was speaking to our solicitor.  The rents he collected this season were surprisingly high, and we were sorting through the finances, looking for errors."

"Did you find any?"  Laura asks.

Derek shakes his head, "The south had a good harvest and there was a surplus in grain, we plan on selling it for profit."  He says, ever the attentive laird.

"Don't do that."  Stiles remarks, only to freeze when Derek turns to him, curious.

"Why?"

"The squirrels."  Stiles says in explanation, cursing himself when he realizes that is no explanation.

Cora frowns, "Do they talk to you?"  She asks mockingly, and Derek looks at her with a displeased expression, before turning back to Stiles and raising a brow, expecting a full explanation.

"They're gathering more nuts than usual."  Stiles says, "Which means the winter will be harsh."

Derek tilts his head to the side, "How do you know that?"

"My mother."  Stiles says with a smile, "She told me to always keep my eye on the wildlife.  If you hear no birds when you're in the forest, it means a predator is nearby, either that, or you're the predator.  If you're hunting, it's a sign to tread lighter, or you won't catch a darn thing."

Derek blinks, "You hunt?"

"I do."

Derek's smile slides slowly over his face, "I must take you then, next time I go."

Laura claps her hands in amusement, "You could arrange a competition, see who is the better hunter, the laird or his squire."

"It's obviously Derek."  Cora states certainly.

Stiles scoffs, and Derek turns to look at him, something like humour swimming in the depths of his eyes.  "You think you could best me?"

Stiles leans forward, whispering conspiringly, "I don't just think it, I know it."

Derek's eyes twinkle, "We'll have to see about that."

***

Stiles' arrow meets it's mark, thwacking broadside into the deer's lungs.  It stumbles, taking off into the forest, but Stiles knows it won't make it far.  So far, he has only been bagging small animals; birds and squirrels.  A whole deer is sure to turn the tides of the bet.

Stiles is thinking of the best way to prepare the animal as he walks further into the forest, his steps light and easy as his mother taught him.  He knows the winter ahead will be tough, so he figures smoking the meat into sausages would be best. 

Stiles pushes through the leaves, finding the dear lying on its side, chest panting as it tries to draw an impossible breath.  Softly, Stiles runs his hand over its flank, soothing the beast, before moving his hand over its eyes, covering them.  He quickly puts it out of its misery with his knife.

Stiles sets about dressing the deer.

He's working, carefully cutting into the stomach and removing the organs when he hears the crack of a branch behind him.  Stiles snaps to attention, and grabs for his bow.  He rises to his feet, scanning the nearby woods.

He knows for a fact that wolves roam these parts, as well as wild boars.  Either of them are just as bad, they will both be drawn to the smell of blood.  They would not hesitate to gut him in order to get to the deer.

A low growl rises from the depths of the forest, closer than before.  A wolf then.

He could always leave the deer, but Stiles is absolutely covered in its blood, and who's to know whether the wolf will come after him instead, picking the even fresher prey.  He'd rather face it head on, than have it leap out at him when his back is turned in retreat.

"Here wolfy."  Stiles whispers, notching an arrow on his bow, "Come out and play."

The growling rises in volume, and Stiles heart beats even faster when he sees fur, dark as night, flash through a break in the trees as the wolf circles him. 

If he bags this wolf, he knows for sure that he will win the competition.  Besides, it would make a beautiful pelt.  Gorgeous, if it was draped around Derek's shoulders.  With that thought in mind, Stiles raises the bow.  The next time the wolf is visible between the gap in two trees, Stiles lets the arrow fly.

***

Stiles wins the competition, even without considering the wolf.  He decides to surprise Derek with the pelt, knowing his birthday is swiftly approaching, so he hides it away with Scott's help, intending the prepare the skin later.

Derek doesn't even appear disappointed that Stiles won, in fact, he looks proud.  He takes one look at the deer, pulls Stiles close until their shoulders touch, and wraps his arm around his waist.  "You did good."  Derek says nudging him with his hip as he looks at Stiles with admiration and respect in his eyes.  Stiles preens.

Melissa prepares the sausages for him, urging him on when Scott tells her about what Stiles plans to do with the pelt. 

He makes a trip to the village, the wolf wrapped in canvas and draped over the back of Stiles' mare.  Scott recommends a tanner he takes his sheep skins to, claiming the wool never falls off the skins they tan.

Stiles hands over the wolf along with a significant amount of coin, with firm instructions to leave the head attached to the rest of the pelt.  The tanner pets the wolf's fur, commenting on the fine quality of the pelt.  He meets Stiles eyes, a knowing look in his own, before asking if he would like the wolf to have eyes the colour of the laird's.

Stiles blushes, not wanting to know how the tanner knew the pelt was for Derek.  He nods when he's presented with two cloudy tourmaline stones, swirls of green and red within, matching the sea form green of Derek's eyes exactly.  He opens his purse again, counting out more coins.

He leaves the tannery, his purse lighter, but with a brilliant smile on his face.  He's absolutely sure Derek will love the gift.

***

Stiles wakes Derek with a slice of pie on his birthday.  Apple pie, with a small dusting of expensive cinnamon, Derek's favourite.  The day is surprisingly warm, and as Stiles throws open the curtains covering Derek's window, the sun beams through the glass, enveloping the room in brightness.

Derek sits at his breakfast table, and surprises Stiles by holding out his fork, a piece of pie on the end.  "Try it."  He offers.

Stiles tries to  take the fork from him, but Derek holds on to it stubbornly, raising his brow.  Stiles swallows, and leans closer, taking the pie into his mouth.  He groans when the flavour hits his taste buds and his eyes closed in pleasure.  When he opens them again, he finds Derek staring at him, a gobsmacked look on his face.  "It's really good pie."  Stiles says in explanation.

"Yeah, it is."  Derek replies hoarsely, fork returning to his plate and picking up some more pie before holding it up to Stiles' lips again.

"You know, there's another fork you don't have to do this."  Stiles says after the third bite of pie, "Not that I don't appreciate it, but it is your birthday, I should be the one feeding you if anything."

"Humour me."  Derek says with the same rough tone.  Stiles frowns, he hopes Derek hasn't caught anything.  He's holding audiences with the village elders tomorrow.  It would be horrible if he got sick and had to suffer through it with a sore throat. 

Next time Stiles goes down to the kitchen, he'll remember to bring a cup of honey water back to Derek, just in case.

"What did you want to do today?"  Stiles asks,  "Peter is taking over your duties, so that leaves your whole day free."

"I want to go riding."  Derek decides, sipping from his tea cup.

"Sure, I'll prepare your horse for you."  Stiles says, heading for the door.

"Stiles?"  Derek calls out.

"Yeah?"

"Ready your mare as well."

Stiles smiles.

***

He readies the horses and prepares the saddle bags, packing away a tasty lunch from the kitchen.  He also wraps the pelt he had hidden under his cot, tucked in a far corner behind his bags.  He's had it for a week and he was constantly paranoid a maid would find it and show it to Derek, ruining the surprise.

It's a beautiful pelt, silky, black, and warm.  The gem eyes glitter in the sun, and Stiles cannot wait to present it to Derek.  He can almost imagine the look of surprise Derek will don when he sees it.  How proud he will be, when Stiles tells him he single-handedly slew the wolf for him.

Stiles pats his mare's side as she chews on some hay.  "Are you ready girl?"  He asks with a smile.  She whinnies, dropping the hay, and attempts to chew on Stiles' hair instead.  He laughs, batting her away and pressing a kiss to her snout.

***

Derek sweeps his long tartan behind him as he mounts his roan.  He eyes the saddlebags Stiles attached to the horse's rump with a raised brow.  "What did you pack?"  He questions suspiciously.

"That's for me to know, and you to find out."  Stiles grins, nudging at his mare's flanks, prompting her into a trot.

"It better be food."  Derek calls out, quickly catching up to Stiles and setting a pace so they ride side by side.

 

 [Tumblr link to art](http://iamonlydancing.tumblr.com/post/144167021162/as-the-river-flows-into-the-delta-8k-words)

 

"Hungry already, laird Hale?"  Stiles teases, "If I knew that, I would have had Melissa bake you two pies."

"I was asking for your benefit,"  Derek urges his horse on, making her trot even faster, leaving Stiles behind in the dust, "I'm going to ride you until you fall off your horse from exhaustion."

Stiles nearly falls off his horse from the double entendre.  "You're on!"  He calls out after Derek, voice high and squeaky.

The ride long and hard out into the highlands, until the castle is nothing but a speck in the distance.  Only then do they slow to a trot.  The wind is quiet, the rolling hills are green, and the sun is high.  Stiles throws his head back, basking in the warmth.

Derek dismounts, and pulls his roan over to a solitary tree where a stream runs by, the horse bends her head and thirstily gulps water.  Stiles leads his horse over so they too can drink.  He refills his flask, and bends over the steam, moaning as the chill freshness of the water touches his parched lips.

He wipes his mouth of water, and walks over to Derek where he rests on a boulder.  Derek's eyes follow him, down his neck where water droplets still trail, to his shirt where the water from the stream splashed, soaking his shirt through.

Stiles picks at his wet shirt distastefully where it clings  to his skin, "It's a good thing I took off my vest."

"It will dry."  Derek remarks, eyes never leaving his chest.

Stiles nods, and pulls the shirt off, shivering from the chill as he drapes it over another boulder.  He walks to his mare, and pulls another tartan off her back, wrapping it over his shoulders.  "Do you want to eat now?"  Stiles calls out, opening the saddle bags and looking for the food.

"I could eat."  Derek's voice says, low, and right at his ear.  Stiles startles, whipping around, finding Derek standing much too close.  He reaches past Stiles, chest ghosting over against his, and grabs a wrapped bannock and jar of jam.  He hums, chest vibrating and making Stiles shiver, when he sees it is blackcurrent.  Derek's favourite.  Stiles purposely made sure he packed all of Derek's favourites.

"I also packed sausages, from the deer I shot."  Stiles offers, holding out the package of cured meat.

"Thank you."  Derek says, taking the food from Stiles, their fingers touching for longer than necessary.

Derek eats the food with relish, commenting on how delicious the sausage was, making Stiles flush with pride. 

After they've finished washing their hands in the stream, Stiles brings up the pelt.

"I have something for you."  He says, nervously.

Derek tilts his head to the side, a smile gracing his lips, "Yeah?"

Stiles scrambles to his feet, "Close your eyes."  He says, and goes to fetch the pelt.

He brings it back and places it in Derek's arms.  Derek's brow furrows, fingers stroking the fur automatically.  "You can open your eyes now."  Stiles says and Derek does.

He stares down in wonder at the wolf pelt in his arms.  Fingers trailing along the head, stopping at the tourmaline eyes, breath hitching when Stiles knows he realizes they were put there to resemble his own.

"I shot this wolf the same day as the deer."  Stiles explains, "When I saw it, I immediately thought of you.  Majestic and beautiful.  Deadly, but also kind and loving towards your pack."

Derek raises his eyes to meet Stiles', "You think I'm beautiful?"  He asks with vulnerability in his tone.

Stiles stammers, blood flowing to his face, thinking of how he's supposed to reply to a question such as that, but Derek doesn't wait for his answer.  Instead he drapes the pelt around himself.  It fits the breath of his shoulders perfectly.

"It looks good."  Stiles comments, reaching out and fixing the head so it rests properly.

Derek gazes at him wordlessly, something unidentifiable swimming in the depths of his eyes.  He opens his mouth like he is going to say something before closing it again, seemingly lost for words, but he keeps staring at Stiles, unable to look away.

Stiles squirms under the weight of the gaze, scratching his neck nervously.  "You're welcome, if what you're trying so hard to say is thank you."

"Stiles."  Derek whispers, and then he's striding forward, right into Stiles arms. 

He kisses Stiles then, softly, a touch of lips, just so he knows exactly what Derek wants.  He kisses Stiles, and then he pulls away.

With that one kiss, all of Stiles' worries fly out the window.  The look in Derek's eyes tell him all he needs to know.  He pulls Derek back into his arms.  Cradling the back of his neck, he tugs him closer.  He takes another kiss from him, their lips mashing furiously as Stiles attempts to communicate months worth of pining into a simple meeting of lips.

Derek makes a soft sound of happiness that sinks into Stiles' bones and he feels so damned much right now.  His heart soars as Derek grabs at his arms, attempting to drag him impossibly closer.  They're wrapped up in each other, noses bumping as their lips lock, heat, passion, and blatant desire flowing between them like a river.

"Derek."  Stiles whispers against Derek's lips when he finally pulls out of the kiss.  His arms are wrapped around Derek's neck, the wolf's fur tickling his chin.  Derek's eyes are soft as he gazes at him, resting their foreheads together, nuzzling gently at his temple.

"I get to have you."  Derek whispers in wonder, his beautiful eyes, deep and searching as he studies Stiles' face.

"You already had me."  Stiles murmurs in return, his eyes crinkling from smiling so hard,  "You've had me since the moment I met you."

Derek smiles.  He grabs the back of Stiles' head and pulls him into a full bodied hug.  Stiles tucks his head into Derek's neck, smelling the salt of his sweat as he breathes him in, feeling the warmth of his skin.  "Derek."  Stiles says again, desperately clinging to his body.  Derek strokes the back of his head, fingers running through his short hair as he presses kiss after kiss to Stiles' temple.

Stiles closes his eyes in happiness and just lets Derek hold him.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Tell me what you think!


End file.
